Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry.
Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, the away
To vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx,
With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience of
Clovers and of noon!
-Emily Dickenson
Pinegreenwoods Poetry Path
